The Experiment
by The Villain's Accomplice
Summary: An experiment is conducted. Sherlock is having fun. John feels tortured. T is for tension! (And mentioned nudity, although you can't exactly see that)
1. Chapter 1

**I do not own Sherlock, John, or Mrs. Hudson. Not yet, anyway...**

There hadn't been a case in nearly two months. Not only was this putting Sherlock on edge, but John had begun worrying about how they would pay the bills. The two of them were in debt to Mrs. Hudson now because of this, and without case money to pay it off, it was turning into a rather large issue. It was just yesterday that the woman came in to address the matter, saying, "I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper, and certainly not your mother!" and the only compromise they could come to was temporarily moving out of one of the bedrooms, just until both of them were making an income again.

"Besides," Mrs. Hudson later added with a smile, "You boys are so close anyway..."

Of course it would have been more logical for Sherlock to move out, considering he was the one not chipping in while John worked at the hospital, but Sherlock had somehow convinced him it was more important that he, as the world's only consulting detective, be keeping his own room which had been stocked with important and irreplaceable research. Sherlock had been seeming oddly persuasive lately, and John couldn't seem to figure out why. Maybe he was just learning to trust his friend to not make radically bad decisions, as he would've when the two had first met during the case he entitled "A Study in Pink".

It was finally arranged. John would be sleeping on the bed, because he was the one giving up his room instead of Sherlock, and Sherlock would get the couch since he rarely slept at all anyway. It all seemed like a fairly stable plan until this morning, when a small living room experiment triggered by Sherlock left the couch and John's armchair in pieces. To make matters worse, Mrs. Hudson would be charging the wall damages on their rent.

So now, an hour before midnight, John awkwardly crawled into bed with his best friend, which wouldn't have been completely uncomfortable had Sherlock not slept in the nude. John laid on his back, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about his friend, stark-naked and curled up beside him. He heard the slow breathing of the consulting detective and tried to match his own with it, but for some reason his throat was choked up and the only way he was getting oxygen was by taking drawn out sighs, and doing his best to stay completely still.

Eventually, John found sleep. His dream slipped away again, he seemed to only vividly remember the nightmares, but he faintly recalled the sound of a violin. John woke up in a daze in the early hours of the morning, feeling oddly warm, as if there was something being pressed against him. He shifted his weight, still bleary and unsure, and then realized the pressing was coming from another body. A naked body. Sherlock Holmes's naked body. John squeaked, the movement of his head causing him to notice Sherlock's fluffy curls squashed against his neck.

Suddenly, the sleeping man's left hand was flung sloppily over John's face, obstructing his breathing, which he realized he wasn't doing much of anyway. John felt another squeak coming on, and his heart was beating so loudly in his chest, and he felt so tense and needed to move his limbs about...

John felt a tiny spasm in his gut that caused him to jerk to the side quickly, and ultimately sent him toppling over the side of the bed, landing on the floor with a thud.  
Sherlock's breathing hitched, and John froze for a moment, silently listening, when he heard Sherlock flop over and resume his slumber again.

John sighed, and pressed his thumb to the bridge of his nose. Did that really just happen? Would it be happening every morning? Maybe he should sleep on the cou-oh, right, they didn't have one anymore. He could ask Sherlock to wear clothing to bed, but that could give away the fact that Sherlock's body unsettled him and he doubted it would actually solve the problem. And oddly enough, he enjoyed Sherlock there. He wanted to have him this close, perhaps not this nude, but still, John liked being able to reach him, to grasp him, even if maybe he was unconscious.

John stood, and after a moment of contemplation decided to crawl back in bed. It was still early and there was no point in missing sleep, and Sherlock was on the other side of it now anyway.

Once he was in, however, he felt the need to summon all his courage and poke Sherlock in the arm, and getting the reaction he was hoping for, Sherlock flipped over once again and wrapped himself around the shorter man. John smiled and closed his eyes, no longer worrying about what the rest of the day would be like, because Sherlock would probably disregard it completely to avoid an awkward conversation. That bothered John a little, perhaps the detective couldn't ever really be in love with anyone, but they both knew they had strong feelings towards each other and John could only hope one day Sherlock would be comfortable enough to acknowledge them.

Content in his detective's arms, he drifted to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Still don't own any of the characters. However, I do have a plan...**

**I apologize in advance for the amount of blushing John does in this chapter. I was really going for a Pink!John/Nudist!Sherlock thing. Just kidding. Thank you for the reviews, they mean a lot considering this is my first fanfic ever. Do enjoy :)**

Yes, something was different, Sherlock noticed. John had been acting strangely for a while. The man seemed more hesitant to speak, as if choosing his words very carefully, and Sherlock's once-normal gestures now made John shift uncomfortably and eventually retreat to another room. Sherlock made a mental list of things John had been reacting strangely to:

Sherlock staring at him  
Sherlock asking him questions  
Sherlock poking him  
Sherlock leaning over his shoulder to read his blog  
Finding human limbs in the kitchen (although this was always something that bothered him)

There was also the fact that John would act awkward and clumsy when it came time for the two of them to go to sleep. They were still sharing a bed, because every case in the past two months the police had been able to solve on their own. Clients did come, but their problems were so inexplicably _boring_, Sherlock would send them away and then John would yell at him for being too arrogant to solve the case of a little girl's missing dog while there was still a rent that needed paying off.

Sherlock woke again this morning to find himself sprawled out across John, and immediately bounded out of bed to check his phone for a message from Lestrade. Sure enough, there was a new text:

**Triple homicide. Victims covered in knife wounds. Scarce evidence. Get down here as soon as possible. -L**

Sherlock jumped for joy, _finally_, not just a murder, no, but a TRIPLE murder! He could barely contain himself.

Apparently, John had woken to the sounds of Sherlock's rejoicing, and as he wandered into the sitting room, Sherlock spun around and grinned at him. John flushed for a moment, and then looked down at the floor.

"Sherlock, uh-um, you're not-" he began.

Sherlock glanced down, and remembered he wasn't wearing any clothes. Is this what was making John blush? Something in his mind immediately snapped, an idea, maybe. For an experiment. He made his way towards the doctor, not breaking eye contact, and John let him take two steps before promptly turning red and running back to the bedroom.

Sherlock chuckled to himself. He would get to the bottom of his friend's strange behavior, after (or as?) this new triple murder was all sorted out. He would just have to test how John reacted to the his advances. So far he knew physical contact made the doctor flinch, unless they were sleeping. He could measure out John's embarrassment by the intensity of his blush and the pitch of his squeaks. It was an endeavor Sherlock looked forward to eagerly.

The next morning Sherlock woke at dawn, again noticing he and John had been sleeping in a tangled knot. Again, he leapt out of bed and this time put on his blue dressing gown before making for the kitchen to prepare two cups of tea. He went over the variables of his new experiment. He wasn't sure what he was testing, really, but he wanted to know how accurately he could affect John.

Picking up the two cups, he made his way back to the bedroom where John was still sleeping, and considering his next move thoroughly, he set his own cup down and brushed a long finger over his sleeping flatmate's jaw. Sure enough, John's eyes popped open, and his face turned a rather bright shade of pink.

"I made tea," Sherlock beamed, extending the small, inexpensive cup towards John, who was now sitting up and stifling a yawn, still not taking his eyes away from the detective.

"Thank you...?" John said, accepting the cup and staring down into the dark amber liquid. "Is there a special occasion?"

Sherlock looked into John's eyes and closed his lips, bringing the corners of his mouth up into a smile in an attempt to mimic what he believed to be referred to as "adorable".

"It's an... apology," he began, "for blowing up the couch. And your chair. And for taking all the food out of the fridge so I could store that human torso... it was for an experiment."

A different experiment, Sherlock thought, one far less interesting.

"Well then, you're forgiven," replied John, taking a sip, then adding to himself, "and I was going to thank you anyway for blowing up the couch. How else would I have gotten you into my bed?"

Realizing what he had just said, John dropped his tea in a panic to cover his mouth with both hands, as if trying to take it back.

"I'm sorry," he said, turning red again, "I didn't mean- that sounded like I-" the tea was already staining the sheets in a dark puddle where he dropped the cup.

Sherlock smiled, ignoring what the man had just accidentally implied. He didn't know how to describe it, but he was somewhat amused with how flustered John was getting with himself. Then, because it was in his nature to go over the top (and, of course, for the good of the experiment), he brought out a hand and cupped John's chin, silencing him.

John looked about ready to explode. He flushed again and then let out a jumble of words neither of them seemed to understand before standing up and dashing out of the room, muttering something about finding a change of sheets.

Sherlock mentally recorded this new information and stashed it away in the 'John' section of his mind palace. He smiled slightly to himself, and proceeded to go over the rest of the information needed in his triple homicide case, which almost seemed boring in comparison at that very moment.


	3. Chapter 3

**This one starts off pretty heavy, but I tried to make the second part sound like a regular chapter. Please review, I need to know how I'm doing! Eventually I'll wrap up all of this sexual tension, I'm just not sure how yet (don't worry, they'll get together).**

**I was THIS CLOSE (holds up fingers to represent closeness) to finally getting Sherlock and John, but I could only catch the latter and had to let him free because Sherlock would be lost without his blogger (in other words, I don't own the characters). Next time, though, they're MINE. Also the title of this chapter, "Conversations With Sherlock" IS a reference to The Hobbit (because Benedict Cumberbatch is gonna be Smaug, get it?). So just clarifying I don't own that either.**

John was scared. Whenever he was in the same room as Sherlock, he gained an overwhelming feeling of terror. He knew it sounded ridiculous, he had invaded Afghanistan for God's sake, but Sherlock's presence made him something more than slightly past nervous.

John knew other people were afraid of the consulting detective, but for completely different reasons. They thought that he was psychotic, he was murderous, or would be, at least, someday soon. John didn't care about any of that. He knew this... this sudden closeness had somewhat contributed to his fear. He was noticing every touch, every whisper, every stare from across the room, those icy pale eyes piercing him, sending shivers through his abdomen. John began avoiding his flatmate to get away from the feeling.

But what was he afraid of, exactly? He could lie to himself, say it was for the same reason as the rest, because it was true Sherlock Holmes could be a dangerous man. However, John knew the real answer. It was that one word he feared, not Sherlock. The single, most vulnerable word in all existence (perhaps aside from "vulnerable" itself) that he saw every time he looked at Sherlock.

John saw it all over his body, written on those long arms and legs, scrawled across his solid chest, etched in the crevices of his prominent ribcage, painted onto his backside, which John knew all too well after sharing a bedroom with him.

It was on his face, too, the harsh edges of his cheekbones and Cupid's bow, the curve of his chin, the turn of his nose. And in his eyes. John looked into Sherlock's eyes and could think of nothing but this one word, this stupid, reckless, imaginary word, the word he feared the most, the word he refused to say in his mind.

He would blame Sherlock for this fear, because Sherlock was the one who so closely resembled it.

And John couldn't stand it anymore.

"John, text from Lestrade. They scanned the residue found next to the bodies, and it could lead us to the killer's whereabouts. We're meeting at the lab this afternoon," Sherlock called as John walked in from the bathroom, scratching his head.

"That's... really wonderful, Sherlock. Suppose this case will be keeping you busy for the next few days?"

"Why do you ask?" Sherlock retorted in an accusatory manner.

"No reason," answered John, yawning. He was partially glad Sherlock had something to occupy himself with, maybe it would leave John alone long enough for him to accept his feelings and learn to keep calm when Sherlock was stroking a hand across his lower back.

Sherlock was already turned back to the table, checking the photographs from the crime scene for the millionth time. John was amused at how quickly the man could get lost in his work.

"I'm making tea," John said, turning to enter the kitchen. "You want any?"

"Tea would be lovely," a deep voice purred into his ear, as John felt two cold hands grasp his waist. He had little time to wonder how Sherlock made his way across the room so quickly, because he was already turning red and feeling chills run across his body.

"Right then," he stated, in as professional a tone as he could muster. "Tea it is." John walked foreward, feeling Sherlock's hands drop from his body as he propelled himself away. He thought about the last incident when the two shared tea. John had not only made a fool of himself, but ruined a perfectly good set of bed sheets. Also, he was beginning to think that Sherlock was only continuing to make these invasive gestures because he knew about John's... interest in the other man and chose to mock him for it.

The notion made John angry. Was Sherlock really this bored, for him to play with John's embarrassment in an attempt to entertain himself? John poured the cups absentmindedly, not noticing he had forgotten to wipe the glare from his face that had formed previously before walking back into the living room, steadily carrying the two filled teacups for him and his friend.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked when he saw John's expression, genuine curiousity and innocence in his voice.

"Not at all," John said, handing a cup towards Sherlock, who took it with both hands, of course being sure to touch John as much as possible. "It's just that... you've been rather affectionate these past few days," John explained nervously, trying to look anywhere but into Sherlock's penetrating gaze.

"Have I?" Sherlock inquired, taking a sip.

"Just a bit."

Sherlock smiled, setting down his cup as he stood. "And surely, you must have picked up enough about deduction by now to know _why _I am acting in this fashion?"

John stammered for a moment. Was Sherlock hinting at... no, couldn't be. John finally locked eyes with the other man and could think of nothing but that one word, the word he told himself to completely disregard when it came to Sherlock. Sherlock was incapable of feeling this, he was sure. It couldn't be, no way, no possible way. John once more refused the hope that it meant what he thought it did before giving Sherlock a hardly acceptable exuse to exit the room and think about everything and anything else that had nothing to do with Sherlock or that word.


	4. Chapter 4

**I'm almost finished, just needed to write a really short and uneventful chapter from Sherlock's perspective to balance things out again. Thanks again for reviewing!**

**I own no one.**

One week had passed, and Sherlock was rather enjoying his little "experiment". It might've been cruel, yes, but he relished seeing John uncomfortable. He was fond of the way John blushed, how embarrassed and sheepish John would turn from the smallest gestures, the brush of his hand on John's arm, his leaning in when talking to John so their noses nearly touched, the nights he'd sleep so close, so impossibly close just to see how the man would react.

The results were always satisfactory.

He felt, though, strangely, as if he were longing for more. Not more of John's reaction, he didn't think. Sherlock wanted this behavior to be directed at _him_. It was a silly notion, he knew, yet he couldn't help but wish John would play along.

Perhaps this experiment was working too well, for he could no longer help the fact that he was infatuated with John, John was all he could think of, even before the murders, it was just John. John, John, John.

Sherlock thought back to how the experiment came into being in the first place. Wanting to know what had changed about John. Sherlock felt like he knew, like he might've known from the beginning, but the theory was based only on casual observation of the lives of others, never something he'd experienced personally.

Not until now.

He shook his head quickly, temporarily throwing out the distracting human thoughts, pesky things he'd rather didn't flood his mind.

He directed his attention back to the nearly finished solving of the triple stabbing, somewhat shocked it was something he could be distracted from in the first place.


	5. Chapter 5

**It's almost finished! One more chapter, I believe. I could 't think of another name for a title, so it's not super duper creative. Thank you for the reviews! I don't own John or Sherlock because the commercial said you must be 18 years or older to call.**

He stayed up all night. John was waiting nervously in bed, but after an hour or so he came to the conclusion that Sherlock would not be joining him until the case was finished. Good.

John knew he could hardly stand it, the man teasing him, because if Sherlock really _did _feel that way- the way he was hinting at with John- he would say something, wouldn't he?

No, John knew that wasn't true.

That man had never experienced it before, as far as John knew, except, perhaps, if it were towards his work, which he firmly stated before that he was married to.

Besides- he _had_ said something. He was obviously hinting at it, what else could he have been trying to imply? John pondered the millions of thoughts speeding through his own mind all at once- was this how Sherlock always felt?

It was giving him a headache, and he decided to get up and make himself a cup of tea. No, this was not an excuse to go and check on Sherlock. And if it was, it was purely because he cared for his friend's well-being, and didn't want him to be overworked.

As John shuffled into the kitchen, Sherlock, who was staring into a microscope, barely glanced up at him.

John decided it was better if his flatmate was preoccupied, better than if he had immediately gotten up and walked over to John, softly murmured John's name and ran his long fingers all over the doctor's body. Better than if he had taken John's face in his hands and tilted it up, leaned down with lips parted and eyes closed, and...

John very nearly slapped himself right there in the kitchen, in front of Sherlock. He was sure his cheeks were red, and this time Sherlock hadn't even spoken to him! John decided his imagination was dangerous.

"Is everything alright?" Sherlock asked, not in a way seeming as though he were trying to match the seductive tone he had used that morning.

"Yes, just fine. Thank you." John answered, staring into those pale eyes.  
Sherlock didn't reply, just gazed back into the microscope, pausing every now and then to scribble something down on a notebook laying on the table beside him.

John was confused. He had expected a completely different Sherlock, the sexually invasive one he had been sharing a flat with for the past week. He later admitted to himself that it was the one he had been hoping to find, and was a bit disappointed when he found that Sherlock was apparently taking a break from the harassment. In fact, Sherlock almost seemed cold, or at least colder than usual, like in a way that he was trying to hide his frustration. Of course John could have just been taken aback by the normal Sherlock in comparison, but he felt as though his flatmate was deliberately avoiding eye contact, looking elsewhere and communicating in a restrained manner.

_He was probably just trying to focus on the work in front of him_, John thought. _He'll soon come to bed and wake me up by stripping off all his clothes and falling asleep on top of me._

The idea pleased John more than it should have.

As he got back in bed, he realized he forgot to make himself that cup of tea, and now the thoughts were back and his headache was worse than ever.


	6. Chapter 6

**Final chapter! It's cheesy, but I guess that's what I was leading up to, so just bear with me. It's full of run-on sentences and lots of commas, because when you break basic writing rules, something goes "POOF!" and you get poetic literature. Or something like that.**

**I don't own Sherlock or John. I do, however, own the triple stabbing Sherlock worked so long to complete. In fact, I committed it. MUHAHAHAHA! Just kidding. I digress. Here's your damn chapter:**

Sherlock looked up at the clock. 19:22. John would be arriving home soon. Excellent. Sherlock had been off of his game the previous night, he had "freaked out" as some might call it, and temporarily resigned from the testing out of fear of what it was doing to his mind. He still hadn't come to terms with his true feelings towards John, and decided to just continue on with the experiment.

Because it _was_ just an experiment. Not just an excuse to excessively touch John. He kept telling himself this.

Sherlock sat on his armchair, the remains of the other furniture stacked in the corner of the flat, yet still not removed (John wanted it out, and Sherlock promised he would dispose of it as soon as he finished the case, which was yesterday). He waited impatiently for the sound of John's footsteps steadily walking up the staircase just outside, drumming his fingers on the armrest of his seat and on occasion shifting uncomfortably at the boredom.

Sherlock glanced at the time again. 19:26. He was rather nervous, had been for the past few days, but all he needed now was to make up for that last night, when he had intentionally ignored John, and the experiment would once again be back on track. His mind was cluttering- he was getting those _feelings_ again- and he shut his eyes for a moment to try to clear them out.

Then Sherlock heard familiar footsteps. His head snapped up, heart racing (why?), and he tried to keep still as he saw the doorknob turning.

John stepped in, looking tired with his mind elsewhere, and gave a jump when he saw Sherlock had sprung up out of his armchair and was gliding towards the doctor with arms outstretched.

Sherlock grabbed onto John, who released a small yelp, and whispered breathlessly into his neck, "You're back."

"And you're... different," John stated, sounding a bit confused, and probably blushing, based on the warmth Sherlock could feel suddenly radiating from the man's neck. "Wait," he began suspiciously, pulling away and locking his gaze on his flatmate, "What did you destroy?"

Sherlock ignored the question and stared back at John, widening his eyes slightly, parting his lips, feeling his heart pounding rapidly.

Pounding rapidly? Sherlock meant to question this earlier, he had never been able to quicken his pulse on command, he wasn't even positive if it could be done. The human heart rate quickens for a number of reasons, primarily because of physical exertion or surprise/panic. Was this what Sherlock was feeling? He still couldn't be sure.

John was still waiting for an answer, but something else had suddenly occurred to Sherlock.

In that moment he wanted it to stop, time itself, because although the notion was impossible and highly irrational, right now he was holding onto John and it was overwhelming. He wanted whatever this was to stop being an experiment, because with John's face right there, so hesitant and confused despite bright red cheeks, Sherlock wanted to drive any doubt out of John's thoughts. He wanted to reset all the damage and teasing he had done in the past week, because truthfully, the experiment _was_ an excuse for Sherlock's desires, and if John ever found out Sherlock had been testing him, Sherlock knew it'd be something the man would describe as "a bit not good". No, something more than that. Very, very bad, really, because Sherlock had heard John say before that it wasn't right to toy with people, or manipulate them for your own enjoyment, and that was what he had been doing to John, wasn't it?

Sherlock focused again on John's deep eyes, so innocent from the outside, but behind the surface he knew they had seen gruesome things. Suffering. People he cared about, dying in front of him. John had been so remarkable at hiding it, Sherlock was finding it hard to believe that upon their first meeting he'd deduced everything (well, maybe not the part where Harry was his _sister_), yet been completely fooled by the man.

Sherlock needed this, he needed this closeness to be real this time, needed another chance to finally have John, all to himself, before the doctor stopped caring.

He was too late.

John's face suddenly contorted into a look of frustration, nearly fury right before Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock tried leaning in, to finish what he had started and make it all better, when John pushed him roughly away.

Sherlock was taken aback, panic seeping into his usually steady flow of thoughts. This was a new response coming from John, one Sherlock was not used to. He gaped until John cleared his throat and hesitantly tried to explain.

"Stop it... stop. I know what you're doing, you're toying with me. And... I know you don't mean to mock me, well you might, but you keep doing it and- we both know what's going on and I don't think I can take it- hold it in... this much longer. You're my best friend, always will be, but this- you know it's different. So you can delete this later if you want, if I'm making the wrong decision, you can throw it out- just like the solar system- but right now, I just need this."

And right then, before Sherlock could even process what would happen next, John Watson beat him to it, catching him off guard for the first time and surprising him once again, and kissing him. Fully, perfectly, Sherlock assumed. He had never been kissed before.

The new information flooded through Sherlock's head. All of this data about John he had never even bothered to collect, all of it was being deposited straight into his mind.

John's lips were like his personality, seeming sweet and harmless at first, but Sherlock later found they were capable of things no one would be able to guess at a first glance. He felt the persistence, the nervousness, the hopefulness in John's kiss. In fact, he could register every emotion John felt at that very moment as if it were being transferred through their connected lips.

And John must have known too, when Sherlock kissed him back, that this was true, not teasing, not part of any experiment, for it was coming from the deepest, most hidden away part of Sherlock that he had worked so hard to reveal to no one, not even himself at times, until now.

Suddenly, the experiment was concluded, the mystery solved, the case closed. All of the actions justified, just because of that one small reason...  
It was so simple, so plainly, extraordinarily, simple, so... _elementary_. Something he could have known all this time, but was never sure enough to say. And then, after everything he'd found out, after all the rest he'd deduced on his own, he finally let his mind put the conclusion into words:

John Watson was in love with him.

And Sherlock realized, for the first time in his life, that he was in love, too.


End file.
